


Allegiance to the Enemy

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Human AU, M/M, No Actual Cheating, Prompt Fic, Regency, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Mieczysław, Story Spoiler: Derek can bear children, almost cheating, general Kate Argent warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Prince Derek of Lýkos has been betrothed to Prince Mieczysław of Beaconia for eight years.  Now that Beaconia is under threat from Argentia, King John sends for Derek to fulfill their agreement. It does not go as any of them might have imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Hi! I’m Jana from your 100th fic posted on ao3. And I know it’s been forever and I’m not sure if you’re still accepting, but I finally have a prompt for you if you want to take it. Regency or historical AU with Prince Derek having an arranged marriage to Crown Prince Stiles. Derek comes to live with them after getting married and I would love to see how he adjusts, like to maybe language and cultural differences and married so different life than before, whatever you want to focus on. As for plot, I’m not picky. Anything is fine. Like maybe Stiles’ country is potentially facing a war from neighboring Argent country and his father the king’s blood pressure is not amazing anymore. I don’t mind what you choose to focus on, such as them getting to know each other, the plot with the Argents, which maybe Scott and Allison’s love can fix, or Stiles and Derek facing challenges together and helping to run a people. Smaller details include: I see their age difference 4-5 years like their canon ages, but with both adults now, and I prefer if when the characters are talking it doesn’t sound too old English, because I find those harder to follow. It’s not something you do, I loved And so the years did pass, but I thought I’d say it anyway. Thank you! I appreciate this and feel free not to if you don’t want to I know I’m very late. I love your writing and I’m glad to hear you’re getting more healthy! Hey this is Jana again. I'm so sorry for flooding your inbox. I forgot to mention one more detail. I would prefer NO alpha/beta/omega verse dynamics fics with the heats. Werewolfs and packs are of course fine if you like, I don't even mind mpreg if you want to include it, but I just prefer no abo fic. Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> Honestly, I think I failed on a few points, but I hope you still like it, Jana. (Also, sorry this is so much later than I had planned.)
> 
> Part 1 of 2.
> 
> Tags are evolving, but if you think I've forgotten something major, please let me know.
> 
> Not Beta-ed. In the process of editing.

~ * ~

Derek pauses, one foot still inside the carriage. He stares wide-eyed at the large stone castle rising up in front of him, its profile large enough to block the barely-shining sun. The clouds never cleared away despite the driver’s insistence that they would, and to Derek, they loan a dreary quality to the day.

How fitting, he thinks, that his wedding day should be so miserable, as he is.

He shakes his head, dropping onto the ground and trying not to grimace as his feet squelch into mud. He turns back for his pack only to find that the driver already has it in hand.

“This way, your majesty,” he says, bowing deeply, blond curls bobbing with him.

Derek returns the bow, as is the custom of his people. The driver bows again, subtly sliding a hand onto Derek’s chest to keep him from bowing again too.

Then, he leads him through the mud and to the great doors. He clears his throat and they swing open. Derek looks for a hidden mechanism but can see none. Mechanics fascinate him but in Lýkos there is little use for metal-works. Here, Beaconia relies on such things for their welfare. If they did not, there is no doubt that their neighbors, Argentia to the south, and Valora to the east would win easily.

The marriage of Beaconia’s crown prince to Lýkos’ token prince is meant to foster an alliance to benefit both kingdoms.

For his part, Derek feels unsettled, like a chill has seeped into his bones and he cannot shake it.

He and the crown prince exchanged portraits nearly eight years ago, but Derek had been sixteen and cared little for his future. The boy had been twelve and just as uninterested. Now, the king of Beaconia is rumored to be in poor health and Lýkos has suffered its own attack at the hands of Argentia.

Derek carries the guilt with him, as he was the one to come across Argentia’s crown princess in their forests, take her to his mother, and have her escape and burn their huts down around them.

The marriage was long decided, but Derek had thought that neither kingdom would act upon it. To be sent here now is banishment. Derek is being punished. Not unfairly, but he still doesn’t wish to be here.

The hall is empty and cold, stone marching off to either side, not a soul in sight.

“Your majesty?” the driver asks, winding a length of cloth around his throat. If it was gloomy outside, inside is nearly worse. There are strange lights hanging from the ceiling, each flickering as though a flame has been trapped, but Derek sees no oil, no wicks. It is daylight in the night, and he stares wondrous at them.

“How do you trap the light?” he asks. The driver stares at him.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says. “Come with me.”

Derek bites his tongue. His mother had insisted he learn the language of his husband-to-be, but Derek had rebelled—as much as he could anyway. His mouth couldn’t make the same soft sounds of their tongue, preferring instead to stay guttural and rough in his own language. He could speak a little, but fluency was hard fought for. He was very good at learning the languages of the land, but Argentia and the Southern Isles spoke a variant of Lýkos’ dialect, which made it easier for their words.

“The light?” he tries again, searching through his memory for their word. He knows enough to recognize it by sight, but he cannot recall how to say it.

“Here we are,” the driver says, opening another large, ornate door and sweeping Derek through.

Inside, there are three thrones set up on a dais. An altar sits before them, candles and books littering the top of it. Leaning over the altar are three men, heads together.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” the driver announces, and the men look up as one. “May I present Prince Derek of Lie-koss.”

Derek steps forward, biting his tongue to keep from correcting the driver on the pronunciation of his home. It’s not like he would understand him anyway.

Derek bows deeply to the three men, one older, one middle, and one young. The young one has an upturned nose and constellations painted onto his skin. Derek recognizes the eyes. This young man is Prince Mieczysław, now twenty years old.

The old man is his father, King John. The man between them is their advisor. Derek thinks he recognizes him from the exchange of betrothal portraits, but he doesn’t know his name.

“Welcome, Prince Derek,” King John says. “You’re early.”

“There were bandits in the forest,” Derek explains. “We wished to travel as quickly as possible.”

The three men exchange glances. The driver steps forward, curtseying. “Forgive us Your Royal Highnesses, Advisor Deaton, the prince does not speak our language.”

“I can speak it just fine,” Derek says, feeling petulant and petty. “I forget sometimes,” he adds. “I know so many languages.”

“And what else do you do?” Prince Mieczysław asks. He looks distrustful. “How many other languages do you know?”

“I know the languages for the surrounding kingdoms,” Derek tells him truthfully. Surely knowing the languages is an asset to Stiles’ kingdom? Derek can act as a translator for his husband.

Stiles scoffs lightly. “I asked for a warrior,” he says in an undertone to his father, “and they sent _this_.”

Derek glances down at his leather jerkin, tied loosely at the neck, his leggings with the patches, and his worn boots. This is his best outfit. He studies Stiles carefully, noting the rich cloth draped over his body in excess. Stiles has layers and layers. And no wonder. It is terribly cold in here. Derek much prefers the outdoors, with the sun and the seasons. Although, he thinks a bit bitterly, there do not seem to be seasons in Beaconia.

“I am proficient in sword mastery,” Derek says. “And archery. I think you forget, Prince Mieczysław, that we have been betrothed for eight years now.”

“And I regret every single one of them,” Prince Mieczysław says, loud enough that there is no mistake that Derek was meant to hear it. “I did not choose you, Prince Derek. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Yes, Prince Mieczysław.” Derek bows again.

King John smiles. “I think it’ll work out,” he says cheerily before doubling over and coughing. The driver scurries away, returning quickly with a goblet that he presses into the king’s hand, helping him drink. He sinks onto one of the thrones and breathes deeply, red-faced and obviously ill.

Prince Mieczysław sees Derek watching and scowls at him, his face twisted into something ugly. “I have no time for this,” he declares. “We are being attacked. An allegiance is too late to dissuade our enemies.”

“Lýkos’ army marches for you, my prince,” Derek says. “They will be here in less than a week’s time. Is that soon enough?”

“How big of an army can the forest dwellers have?” Stiles demands. “Fine! We will be married tonight.” He eyes Derek’s clothing again. “Isaac,” he says to the driver, “fetch the prince some clothing. Make sure there is a room set up for after the ceremony.”

“Stiles,” King John says, and Derek looks around the room, wondering what that word means. He never came across it in his studies.

“Yes, Father?” Prince Mieczysław sighs. Oh, it’s a pet name.

“Your husband is more than an asset for war. You’d do well to remember that.”

Prince Mieczysław colors, but he seems no less angry. “I understand,” he grits out. Then, he marches in front of Derek, curtseying stiffly. “Welcome to Beaconia, Prince Derek.”

Derek bows back. “Thank you,” he says genuinely. Prince Mieczysław’s eyebrows rise and he shakes his head. Derek worries that he said something embarrassing.

“Do not bow again,” Prince Mieczysław says. “In our country it’s as good as saying ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

Derek looks to King John, but the king is busy drinking more water.

“Very well,” he says to Prince Mieczysław. “Is there a way you’d prefer me to greet you?”

“Perhaps try curtseying like me?”

Derek tries the short bow and finds it unsettles him. He doesn’t like that he barely moves and doesn’t show the back of his neck to his will-be-husband. In Lýkos, to bow deeply means absolute trust in the person receiving the bow as they can then attack while the other is occupied. To not do so is a return of trust.

Prince Mieczysław, though, smiles at him, and Derek feels joy at having caused it, even though it brought discomfort to himself.

“What shall I call you?” Derek asks. “Husband?”

Prince Mieczysław grimaces. “No. How about just Stiles? It’s easier than you trying to say my name.”

“Will you call me Derek instead of addressing me as Prince?”

“It’s your title,” Prince Mieczysław—Stiles says. “Don’t you want to use it?”

Derek shakes his head. “I haven’t earned it yet,” he says. To Stiles’ stunned face, he adds, “I am of the royal family, but we only assume our titles once we’ve done something worthy to earn them. I haven’t earned mine yet.” In fact, Derek thinks, because of the Princess of Argentia, he may never have the chance to earn his title.

“Father!” Stiles stomps away from him, and Derek ducks his head to hide the shame burning in his cheeks.

“Stiles.”

“Surely we can break the betrothal? I mean, Lie-koss lied about their prince. He doesn’t have a title.”

“Stiles, in the eyes of every kingdom but theirs, Derek is a prince. I will not break my agreement with Lýkos just because you’ve decided to be a petulant child about your duty.”

Stiles looks properly chastised, and turns to Derek, an apology on his lips.

Derek waves the apology away. He understands that the prince is under immense pressure right now, with the looming war, his father’s failing health, and a new husband.

Isaac returns then, arms laden with materials as fine as what Stiles is wearing. Derek tucks his hands behind his back, keenly aware of the dirt ingrained in his skin. If Stiles is distasteful of his clothing, what would he think when he realizes that no matter how hard he scrubs, Derek can’t wash the forest from his skin?

“Take him to his chambers,” Stiles orders. “See that he dresses properly.”

“Stiles,” King John says tiredly. “Your husband is from a different country. His proper is not your proper.” He smiles at Derek, lifting his empty goblet to toast them.

Derek tries not to take it as an omen, all too aware of the differences between his husband and himself. Isaac leads him out of the throne room and down one of the winding halls. Derek wishes he were a tracker, like his mother and the rest of his family instead of a scholar. Then, he thinks, he would not lose his way in the castle. He also wouldn’t have been taken in by Princess Kate’s lies.

~ * ~

Isaac opens a narrow wooden door, allowing Derek to enter before him, all but shoving him in really. The room is simple, with a bed and a heavy coverlet against one wall and a ewer and bowl on a stand next to it. There are tools for shaving laid out, and Derek scratches at his beard. His mother had finally agreed to let him grow it, and Derek is rather proud of it.

Isaac notices and nods. “I’ve been told that you are to be clean shaven.”

“Am I to do it?” Derek asks as clearly as he can in Beaconian. He traces the handle of the razor.

Isaac shakes his head, setting the clothes down upon a long chest. The rest of the room is empty. “I believe I am to help you.” Isaac points at the bed, and Derek sits. He doesn’t like the feel of the material underneath his fingers as he grips the coverlet, and the mattress is far too soft to provide any support.

He holds still as Isaac grabs the ewer and pours a stream of water into the bowl. He lifts the bowl and carries it to the bed where he sits it in Derek’s lap.

“Don’t let it spill. I’m going to heat it now.”

He taps the edges of the bowl, indentations appearing, and the bottom of the bowl warms pleasantly. Derek clutches at it while Isaac opens a drawer under the bed and rises, towels held out to Derek.

He sets them aside, selects a small washcloth to dip in the bowl. He drapes this over the back of Derek’s neck, and the warmth of it eases something inside.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Isaac warns as he uses another washcloth to soften the skin of Derek’s face.

Derek does not fall asleep. The blade is sharp and close to his jugular, and he feels a little unsettled as Isaac uses short strokes to remove the hair.

When he’s done, he retrieves a glass surface for Derek to study his reflection.

He looks far younger without his beard, and he can’t help but miss it.

Isaac looks pleased until he notices Derek’s hands, tsking at the dirt under his nails. “A bath is in order,” he says, somewhat bitingly.

There is no way to have a bath in the room, so Isaac takes him down another series of hallways. If an enemy were to invade, Derek thinks they’d have a hard time finding anything. He’s dizzy and unsure of where they are when they finally stop.

The room Isaac shows him into is a bath-room, with a large stone tub set in the center of room. Isaac twists a handle and water rumbles out from a spout. Derek places his hand underneath the stream, pulling back quickly at the coldness.

He shivers and hopes that he is not supposed to climb in. If he does, he’ll never be warm again.

Isaac nods at it, and resigned, Derek tugs at his jerkin, pulling it off in one fluid motion. His leggings are a little more difficult, as the tie has become knotted. He doesn’t wish for Isaac to help him and struggles it open, stepping out of them and setting them aside.

He feels shame when Isaac looks at him, the same disgust that pinched Stiles’ face evident in his. Derek knows he has dirt on him; it’s impossible to live in Lýkos and not have some of the land covering him. He just wishes that it wasn’t viewed as bad.

Isaac points at the tub, and Derek climbs in. It’s colder than he even imagined, and he gasps in pain and slight fear. Under Isaac’s impassive stare, he sinks down, the water slipping up to his chest, tightening a band around his lungs.

He can’t breathe, his body too cold to shake. Isaac dips a ewer into the tub and pours it over Derek’s head. Then, he works a harsh soap into his hair, scrubbing it down his body. Heat flares in its wake, quickly extinguished when Isaac pours more water over him.

Shortly, Isaac instructs him to stand, and when Derek does, he wraps a towel around him. It does nothing to help with how chilled Derek is, but Isaac ignores his chattering teeth, directing him toward a chest where an outfit similar to Stiles’ has been laid out. Even the boots are shiny like Stiles’.

Once he’s fully dressed, Derek is thankful that there are so many layers. He doesn’t feel any warmer, but at least he doesn’t feel the water sliding down his body anymore. His hair is still dripping though, and Isaac sighs loudly when he notices.

“Sit,” he says harshly. He pushes Derek down by his shoulder, drawing a brush roughly through his hair. Once he’s done, and Derek’s head aches, he loops a thread around the locks gathered at his nape, tying it tightly. “There. All done.” He leans close and sniffs loudly. Derek doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. “You don’t stink anymore.”

Derek bites back a retort. He is the stranger in this land. His mother impressed upon him that he was not to endanger his position as Stiles’ husband. Derek didn’t think that meant taking abuse from others, but his husband had already set the precedence with his disparaging remarks about Derek’s clothes. It was only a matter of time before they attacked his character and his intelligence, or perceived lack of. If Derek is completely honest with himself, Stiles has already staged an assault. After all, why had his father, King John, stopped him, reminding him that Derek had more worth than just the alliance?

“Come along,” Isaac urges, and Derek stands up, shaking his arms and legs where the material has bunched. He does not particularly wish to return to the throne room, but he must, so he lets Isaac lead him back through the winding hallways until they are back before the dais with the three chairs and the table. The table has been pushed aside, and Advisor Deaton is nowhere to be seen. King John and Stiles both sit in their thrones, King John in the center and Stiles to his right.

Derek bows quickly and then curtsies. He peers up through his lashes to see Stiles scowling at him while King John regards him with a fond expression.

“There,” Stiles says, the scowl twisting his words cruelly. “Isn’t that much better?”

“Yes, my Prince,” Derek says, unsure if that is how he is to address his husband. From the way Stiles’ mouth’s curl softens, he thinks he was correct.

King John shakes his head. “When Alan returns, we shall commence with the hand-joining and then a feast.” He turns his gaze to Derek, and he shifts under the kind weight of it. “I only wish that some of your family had been able to accompany you to witness this union.”

Derek bites his tongue to keep the fact that no one had offered and he hadn’t asked, too afraid of what the answer would be. He knows that his family loves him, but he doesn’t want to test it. After Princess Kate’s attack, he knows his mother and father have a hard time looking directly at him, Laura hasn’t spoken to him, Cora’s gentle ribbing has turned vicious, and Peter watches him with an unreadable look in his eyes. Derek knows his family doesn’t trust him. And he knows that Beaconia doesn’t trust him either. Why should they? All they know about him is that he is betrothed to their prince.

Derek stands before the king and prince while they wait for the advisor to arrive, and Derek wishes he could spend the time exploring, perhaps losing himself so thoroughly that the prince wouldn’t have to worry about marrying him. Instead, once Advisor Deaton comes back, laden with a heavy red cloth, strong white rope, and a chalice similar to the one Isaac had given King John, Stiles jumps to his feet and steps down next to Derek.

Advisor Deaton lays the items across the final throne, curtseying to both the king and the prince.

“If you will, my Lord,” he says to Stiles, and Stiles inclines his head, turning to Derek.

“We are to join hands,” Stiles explains. He holds out his and lets Derek lay his atop it. Deaton moves swiftly, gathering the rope and using it to lash their hands together. Stiles tests the give, frowning when there is none. Deaton covers it with the cloth and dribbles liquid from the chalice over it. He removes the cloth when the chalice is empty. The rope isn’t wet, and Deaton seems pleased about it.

The binding doesn’t feel tight, but Derek doesn’t like the restriction of it. Since he was on Stiles’ left, it is his right hand, his sword hand, that is restrained. Deaton speaks words that Derek doesn’t understand, and Stiles repeats them. Derek bites his tongue until he can taste blood, and when they turn expectantly to him, he repeats them as best as his swollen tongue can. Stiles’ brow furrows, and Derek drops his gaze to the new boots on his feet.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” Deaton says, drawing Derek’s attention up. “Prince Stiles, if you would.”

Stiles looks like he’d rather do anything else, but he obediently leans in. Derek moves back at first, unsure of what Stiles is trying to do, and then he realizes that Stiles is trying to kiss him. He holds still, letting Stiles’ lips barely brush his before Stiles retreats.

“You’ll be branded when the rope comes off,” Stiles tells him. Derek shudders. He has his family’s crest burned into his flesh on his back. It hurt badly, and Peter had held him down while his mother had held the brand to his flesh. He wonders where Stiles will leave his mark, and he wonders if it will hurt as much as his family’s branding did.

“Stiles,” King John admonishes, and Stiles’ ears turn red. To Derek, he says, “Stiles means your rings will be branded on your skin. Tattooed on your fingers to signify that you will remain true to each other.” The king waves his own tattooed hand. “It hurts for a moment, but the reward is worth it.” He shoots a pointed look at Stiles. “Usually,” he amends, and Stiles’ blush travels down his face, staining his cheeks pink.

“Prince Stiles and Prince Derek, you may retire to the dining hall,” Deaton instructs. “The hand-tying shall last for seven days during which you will learn to trust each other implicitly.” He also fixes Stiles with a pointed look.

“What?” Stiles demands. “Why are you looking at me like that? I can trust Derek.” The side-glance he gives Derek says otherwise, and Derek tamps down the hurt that it causes. He won’t give Stiles a reason to distrust him, but will Stiles return the favor?

Derek’s arm jerks suddenly, and he looks to Stiles.

“Come on.” Stiles glares at him. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Derek might be, but he isn’t sure that he won’t be humiliated and derided at the table, especially since his dominant hand has been fastened to Stiles’ hand.

He follows Stiles, noting that the way the prince walks, with both arms swinging wildly, even if one of them is anchored to Derek. He wants to drag his feet, but he’s already enough dead weight and hurries to at least stay a pace behind Stiles.

The twisting hallways are no better now, and Derek would be lost but for the constant tugging on his hand.

The dining hall is very near the bath-room, and Derek feels his face go hot at the thought that the other servants might have heard him or peeked in to see him. It was bad enough to have Isaac in the room with him.

He can’t meet anyone’s eyes as they pass, on their way to the head of a long table loaded with different foods. The smells mingling together make Derek’s already-upset stomach roil further, and he swallows down the sudden burst of saliva.

Stiles sits to John’s right, forcing Derek to stand awkwardly between them.

 No one says anything, and Derek stands while the rest of the people gathered in the room sit down. A prayer is said and then the food is passed around. John clears his throat repeatedly and Isaac appears to refill his goblet.

John sighs when Stiles ignores him, turning pointedly to the woman next to him to converse loudly on the coming dance tonight. Derek’s stomach flips at that. He doesn’t know dances. He’s graceful yes, but there is no room for dancing in Lýkos.

“Here,” John says, tapping Derek’s free hand. When Derek turns to him, he presses a chunk of meat into his hand. Derek quietly thanks him and nibbles at it. He thinks the taste isn’t as good as meat from his country, but he thinks it’s because they hunt for their food, and Beaconia has pens for their animals, though he has not seen them yet. When it is cold nearly year round, food must be scarce. The table belies that, and Derek knows the kingdom isn’t as poor as it would appear at first.

Their façade has worked in their favor for years. Argentia has only recently threatened Beaconia, necessitating Derek to travel to Beaconia to honor the betrothal.

“Stiles, people are staring,” John says in an undertone. Stiles shoots him a glare, turning back to the blonde at his side. She flashes him a toothy smile that reminds Derek of the sun-snakes that watch the river, dangerous and aware. She strokes her hand down Stiles’ arm, and he smiles at her.

Derek sets the meat down, appetite entirely gone. Stiles doesn’t even intend to wait until the rope is untied before he starts an affair.

The room blurs from the tears that fill Derek’s eyes.

He wants to leave, in fact pulls on the binding until he remembers that where he goes, Stiles does too. If Stiles beds this woman before the week has expired, Derek will have to be there too. He will have to witness his husband’s betrayal with his own eyes.

A small sob escapes his mouth. John pats his lap, and Derek shakes his head. He refuses to draw more attention to himself by imposing on the king.

He waits patiently for Stiles to eat his fill, the motion of Stiles using his knife to cut his meat making Derek’s arm swing.

The woman keeps making eye contact with Derek, laughing each time she notices a new tear running down his face. Derek tries his best to dry his eyes. He even manages to swallow some bread and a slice of cheese. John proposes a toast to the new coupling, and everyone else raises their goblets as well.

Stiles smirks at the woman as he sips at his drink.

“I’m sorry,” John says. His face is stormy, and Derek has no doubt that he will yell at Stiles later. It comforts him somewhat that his new father-in-law is supportive of him.

Stiles finishes by dropping his napkin over his plate and standing up. He offers his arm to the woman, and she accepts.

Derek trails behind him again while the woman keeps step. Derek has no choice but to go where they go, and they end up in a room near where Isaac had taken Derek before the bath.

There is a large bed in the center of the room, the blankets already turned down.

Stiles turns to the woman and offers her a seat on the bed.

“Derek, this is Heather. She will be the surrogate to the throne.”

“Concubine, you mean,” Derek says harsher than he means. He finches under the stony gaze the woman—Heather—turns on him.

Stiles slams a hand against Derek’s chest, forcing him back until their bound hands stop him. “She will carry the children you can’t give me,” he says coldly. “Until you can be as useful as that, you will treat her with the respect you can’t earn.”

“What if I could?” Derek asks. Stiles pauses, hand held out to hit him again.

“What?”

Derek slides his gaze away, staring at a pockmark on the wall. “I can provide you with children,” he says to the mark. He doesn’t want to see the disgust on Heather’s face. On Stiles’.

Heather scoffs. “That’s a lie,” she says. “Men can’t have children.” She pauses. “You are a man, right?”

“I am,” Derek says, still staring at the pockmark. “I am, but I have parts that allow me to carry children.”

Stiles’ hand bounces off Derek’s cheek, and he recoils.

“Don’t ever lie to me again,” Stiles hisses. “You already created this marriage on false pretenses. The least you can do is let me make the best of it.”

Derek lets himself be dragged to the bed where Stiles settles next to Heather. He waits for something to happen, but nothing does. Stiles and Heather don’t lie down together and they don’t try to make a child.

Derek endures the silence for nearly an hour before Stiles sighs, rubbing at his face with his free hand. “Go on,” he says to Heather, and she stands, pressing a kiss to both Stiles’ hand and his cheek.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Stiles rounds on Derek. “What the hell was that? ‘I have parts that allow me to carry children’? What sort of bull crap nonsense is that?”

Derek doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles. The last time he did that, he was hit. His cheek still aches with the impact. No doubt it is swollen, bruised. “I can,” he says quietly. “It is a secret that my kingdom keeps.”

“Why?”

Derek shrugs. “Perhaps time ago, it was unfavorable for a man to carry his progeny.” Derek rubs at his cheek, swallowing the hiss that the contact causes. “I can show you, if you’d like?”

Stiles shrugs. “Go ahead. You know I won’t believe it until I see it.”

Derek fumbles at the tie of his pants until he manages to loosen it enough to slide it down to reveal between his legs. He uses his unbound hand to lift his penis and ball sac out of the way. Stiles leans closer, his breath fanning over Derek’s secret place. He pokes it with a gentle finger, and Derek jerks away, pulling up his pants.

“How do you know you can carry children?” Stiles asks, suspicious. “Have you tried?”

“I bleed like my sisters,” Derek says. “If my sisters can carry children, can I not too?”

Stiles shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. Possibly. I mean, if you do bleed as a woman does. And you do have the parts.”

He looks contemplative. “We could try?” he said.

Derek shakes his head.

“Why not?”

Derek touches the rope around their wrists. “You don’t trust me,” he says. “And I don’t trust you.” He moves his hand to his cheek. “You’ve hurt me, both physically and emotionally. You were prepared to sleep with a woman on our wedding night, in our bed, in front of me.” He wipes at his eyes, unsurprised to find that he’s crying again.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, watching him with a carefully blank expression. It makes Derek cry harder because he’s all alone here with a man who doesn’t love him, who wants to use him for his access to his kingdom’s military and for his ability to bear children. Maybe Derek was too naïve in wishing that his marriage could be for love. He’d always known, he thinks, that his betrothal to Prince Mieczysław was not a marriage of love but of alliance.

“I think I want to sleep now,” he says, and Stiles nods. He stands up and turns down a small lever on the wall. The lights extinguish, and in the darkness, he takes Derek’s free hand with his, pulling him to the bed. They sit, and Stiles takes off their boots.

As they lie still, the blanket pulled up to their chins, their bonded hands between them, Stiles whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Derek doesn’t believe him.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to any who read. It is greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Kate appears and briefly assaults Derek.

~ * ~

The next morning, King John summons them to the same dining hall. This time, Stiles sits to his father’s left, allowing Derek to take a seat.

Stiles is subdued and barely lifts his head from his plate even if he doesn’t eat a single thing.

Derek is ravenous after having eaten very little the day before, but he is aware of the way his right hand moves Stiles’ left, and he too picks at the food before him, wishing it were something easier to pick up and eat than eggs covered with a cream-based white sauce.

Their struggle to dress this morning was almost hilarious, but Stiles hasn’t said one word to Derek, so he’s bitten his tongue on every suggestion he could make. He thinks Stiles is mulling over their words last night, and to be truthful, so is Derek.

“Stiles,” John says, and Stiles finally looks up. “I hope you know that I am disappointed in how you’ve treated Derek so far.”

Quietly, Stiles murmurs, “I know.” He swallows hard, turning to Derek. “I promise to do better.”

“That includes,” John inserts, “not bedding others, especially not during the trust-building.” He smiles at Derek, but suddenly the light goes out from his eyes, and he turns a furious glare on his son. “Stiles!”

“What?” Stiles finally lifts a bite of egg and sauce to his mouth. John slaps it from his hand. He points a shaking finger at Derek’s face.

Right, Derek thinks, the bruise. “I’m fine,” he says softly, but John is already berating his son, admonishing him for striking his husband.

“You’re supposed to be the one on his side, the one protecting him!” John yells.

“I didn’t want to marry him!” Stiles yells back. “ _You_ chose him, not me! Why didn’t you marry him?”

John deflates, head sinking into his hands. “I’m nearly three times his age,” he says. “Queen Talia would never have agreed to it. Besides, you’ve got a chance to carry on the throne. I don’t.”

Derek feels something cold twist in his stomach. “You knew?” he says through numb lips.

John nods. “Of course. Beaconia is the history-keeper. I used to be the historian when my father was king. There are records on all the surrounding kingdoms. It’s part of why Argentia is attacking us now. They want the history for the kingdoms.”

“You knew,” Stiles says hollowly. “You knew that he could carry on the lineage and you didn’t tell me?”

John nods again. “I couldn’t risk it. It wasn’t something that I could trust outside of a small circle of knowledge.”

“Does Deaton know?”

“Yes. He’s my advisor. Queen Talia trusts him as well.”

Derek shoves his plate away. “What about Heather?” he asks. “Can you trust her?”

Stiles blanches as his father turns a heavy gaze on him. “You told Heather?”

“Technically,” Stiles says, “Derek told Heather.”

“I don’t care,” John says. “You find her. Make sure she didn’t tell anyone. If she did, we’ll have to issue a formal apology to Lýkos.”

“Lie-koss,” Stiles corrects.

“Actually, it’s Lýkos,” Derek whispers. “My kingdom’s name is Lýkos.”

Stiles doesn’t respond. Instead, he stands, tugging Derek up with him. “I think I know where Heather might go,” he says, eyeing his father. “She and I have been friends for years. Since before my mother passed.”

John lets them go. When Derek looks back, he sees the king slumped forward, head on his clasped hands, shoulders shaking with what must be sobs.

“Will he be all right?” Derek asks. Stiles again doesn’t respond.

Derek has no choice but to keep pace with Stiles, although he does stay a step behind again. Stiles tugs impatiently at their bonds. “Keep up,” he snaps.

Derek wants to defy him, drag his feet, but he knows how important it is that they find Heather and learn if she divulged Derek’s secret.

They take one too many turns and Derek is lost again. Stiles finally stops in front of a set of doors larger than the throne room’s entrance. Stiles doesn’t pause and slams through the doors.

Inside, several people look up, scrambling to their feet to curtsey. Stiles waves at them all, marching up to a wide window overlooking a field filled with grazing animals. There are more of the bulbs hanging from the ceiling over the animals, and Derek thinks that the indoor pasture is near the center of the castle. Is all of Beaconia like this, trapped inside stone walls while they hide from their enemies?

It must work. Beaconia is still standing.

Heather is reclining on a seat in front of the window, staring out it. She refuses to turn around when Stiles clears his throat.

“Heather,” he says sharply. She looks at them finally.

“If you think you can be with me, make me your mistress, when you’re married to _that_ ,” her lip curls in disgust as she nods at Derek, “then I would suggest you find someone else.”

“Did you talk to anyone after you left my chambers last night,” Stiles asks. He leans close, hissing the words to her.

Heather throws her arms wide. “Who would I tell?” she asks derisively. “No one believed me when I said you were my friend. No one would believe me now.”

“My father still wishes to speak to you.” Stiles grabs her and hauls her to her feet. She doesn’t resist, and they return to the dining hall where John is still seated at the table. Isaac is attending him along with another person, a hulking man with gentle hands and kind eyes.

“Stiles, Derek,” John says, forced cheerfulness. “You found Heather. Wonderful.”

To Heather, he says, “Sit. Have a chat with this old man.”

“Do you need us to stay?” Stiles asks. He addresses the big man.

“He should be fine,” the doctor says.

John waves them away, and Stiles leads Derek out into the hall.

“So,” Stiles says as soon as the door closes. “Uh, Boyd and Isaac will take care of my father and make sure that Heather doesn’t misbehave I have a strategy meeting with Deaton later today. I don’t know how much you know about the war, but this meeting is important.”

Derek can infer and realizes that Stiles is trying to tactfully ask him remain silent during the meeting.

“I can do that,” Derek tells him. Stiles doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t say anything else and leads Derek back to the throne room.

Deaton is already waiting for them, and he taps a map. Derek averts his eyes, studying the heavy stone of the wall. Stiles and Deaton discuss positions in low tones, and Derek does his best not to listen, but in Lýkos, hearing is just as important a sense as sight, and he can visualize the sweep of Argentia’s army crawling up the south side of Beaconia. To reach Lýkos, they had to skirt Stiles’ kingdom. That must have been why only the Crown Princess had been found: to send more soldiers would have been a declaration of war. As it was, Derek had revealed his kingdom’s weakness in bringing Kate to the center of the huts.

Then, he hears Stiles say something about taking defense from the western border, the one Beaconia shared with the Great Northern, to reinforce the south.

“Won’t that leave you vulnerable to attack on that front?” Derek asks. He leans over Stiles’ shoulder, studying the map. “If you leave your soldiers there, Lýkos’ army should be able to reinforce the south.”

“You said your army would be here in a week’s time. We don’t have that.”

“Where are the Argentia troops?” Derek studies the map, using his thumb to measure the distance. Nearly three thumb lengths. Derek knows it takes two days to travel the length of his thumb on a map. If Argentia pushes their army, they can travel a thumb-length in a day.

“Is this their most current position?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s where they are estimated to be. The Southern Isles refuse to share information with us, and that is Southern Isle territory.”

“So, they could be closer or farther away.” Derek thinks, tapping his lips. “It took me nearly three days to travel here with your driver and your carriage. It will take Lýkos’ army nearly double that to arrive on foot. If they departed immediately after I did, they should be here within another few days.”

“That might work,” Stiles agrees. “Do you have a way to find out where they are?”

“No,” Derek says. He flinches under Stiles’ glare. “I am not the heir of anything in my kingdom. I have no knowledge of the army’s position.” He lowers his head, to show his shame at being useless to his husband. “If your father had not summoned me to honor the betrothal, I would have joined the army as a captain.”

“Can you fight?”

“Yes,” Derek says, holding up their bound hands, “when I have full use of my hand.”

Stiles cuts his eyes to Deaton. “Can you break the binding?”

Deaton looks uncomfortable. “It is unadvisable, but if it comes to it, I can.”

“Okay, for now, we won’t,” Stiles says, but that is little comfort to Derek. He doesn’t know what words they repeated when Deaton married them, but he has a feeling that if they break the binding before they’ve learned to trust each other, then their marriage will be considered void, and he will be sent back to Lýkos in disgrace.

Deaton gives Derek a sympathetic look before he turns back to the maps. “Your majesty, if I may make a suggestion.”

“You may.”

“Argentia has requested to send an ambassador. If Beaconia were to accept this ambassador, it may open the doors to an alliance that would require the army to step down.”

“And who is filling the position of ambassador?” Stiles asks.

“The crown princess.”

“Princess Kate?” Derek asks.

When Stiles and Deaton turn to him, incredulous glares on their faces, Derek wants to take the name back.

“She infiltrated Lýkos,” he explains shamefacedly. “I found her. We tried to help her, and in return she attacked my family and burned our village.”

“And what proof of this do you have?” Stiles demands.

“You can ask my family,” Derek says. “Or the commander of our army when she arrives. The assault was documented.”

Stiles sighs. “And we had to choose Lick-oss instead of Argentia.”

Even Deaton looks ashamed.

“Argentia is a warring kingdom,” Derek says. “Beaconia is science-orientated.”

“And what is Lick-oss?”

“Lýkos,” Derek stresses, “is a peaceful kingdom with few enough resources to join the realm of science without help. The alliance fostered between Beaconia and Lýkos was supposed to be bring my kingdom to a new age while supplying your kingdom with a military presence to ward off further attacks from kingdoms like Argentia.” He pauses for breath, upset, certain that Stiles can feel how his hand trembles. “If you wish to have aligned with Argentia, then perhaps we shouldn’t wait to have the bindings dissolved.” He thrusts their wrists at Deaton.

“Hold on,” Stiles says, nervously. “Now, let’s not be hasty.”

“No?” Derek asks. “You can insult me to my face, can insult my kingdom, can speak of a desire to have an ally that wished to destroy us, and you speak of haste?”

“I,” Stiles flaps his mouth, as if unsure of what to say.

Derek snorts inelegantly. “You have spent much of these past two days insulting me. You brought a mistress to our bed on our wedding night. You refuse to believe that the alliance between our kingdoms will benefit both. Am I really supposed to allow you to denigrate me?”

“Have I really been that insufferable?”

Derek doesn’t know what Stiles is playing at. It’s been obvious that Stiles has disliked him since before he stepped out of the carriage.

“Yes,” Deaton answers for him. “Your father will have strong words with you, your majesty. For now, I think you should leave the military matters to your commander.”

King John has already had words for Stiles. Derek touches the bruise. Stiles puts on a show for the people around him, but with Derek he can’t lie.

Remorsefully, Stiles stares at his and Derek’s bound hands. “I’m a terrible ass,” he mutters. “I haven’t even been trying to change my attitude.”

“I thought you had,” Derek says. “After the discussions last night and this morning. But, you’ve gone back to treating me as if I’m scum dragged in on someone else’s feet. You haven’t even learned to pronounce my kingdom’s name, and I doubt you know any of its language. I’ve tried, and I will continue to try to be the perfect husband for you, but I don’t want to be alone in it.”

Stiles doesn’t raise his gaze from their hands. “I wish I could promise that you won’t be,” he finally says, “but I don’t think you should trust that promise.”

“A wise insight,” Derek mutters. His shoulders slump and he hangs his head. He feels tired, exhaustion running through his veins. He wants the rope off if only so he can find a room to hide in, to grieve the end of his marriage in private. Despite how wrong it has been for him to be bound to Stiles, he can’t help wishing that he could have won his husband over, that he could have been given a fair chance.

He thinks that Stiles would like time alone as well, but because of Deaton’s refusal to break their bonds, they will remain tied together likely for the rest of the week.

Stiles lays his unbound hand on Derek’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for how I am mistreating you. I don’t mean to be this way.”

“If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t do it anyway,” Derek says. He tugs at Stiles’ hand. “Can we retire for now? If your father is going to yell at us again, I would appreciate some time to gather myself.”

“Certainly,” Stiles says, “but first.” He blushes oddly. “I need to visit the water closet.” Derek frowns at him. He doesn’t know what that is. Stiles sighs, seemingly understanding that he doesn’t. “It’s a bathroom, an outhouse, only it’s inside.”

Derek nods, turning his frown down at their hands. “I am not wiping,” he tells him.

Stiles laughs. “I should hope not.”

~ * ~

Derek finds a certain peace in hiding from Stiles’ father. They are in the library, and Stiles is working on a project. Derek watched him for a few minutes, but when Stiles refused to explain what he was doing, Derek grabbed the nearest book and began reading. So far, he’s learned that Beaconia had an air force that was shuttered when the Southern Isles attacked and tried to steal the plans.

“What’s an air force?” Derek asks, and Stiles sighs, laying aside his tool.

“It’s a group of planes used in warfare.” He gestures at the project in front of him. Derek studies it more closely. It’s a long body with protruding appendages from either side. It has wheels on the bottom and sharp blades on the front. There is a cavity on the top where Derek thinks a driver would sit.

“These planes are good, yes?”

“They’re all right. I mean, we hadn’t worked all the kinks out before engineers from other kingdoms tried to steal them. We decided that they would be far too dangerous to allow to exist and destroyed all traces of them.”

“Except for your models,” Derek says, pointing at it.

“True,” Stiles agrees. He looks down at it and then at the book in front of Derek. “Do you want to try it?”

Derek lifts his free hand. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. “I am not the most skilled with my non-sword hand.”

“I don’t mind, you know, if you ruin it. I can always just take it apart and fix it.”

“I still don’t want to do it.”

Stiles shrugs. He sets the model aside. “I have a feeling my father will send for us shortly.” He looks at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “Can you really be pregnant?”

Derek refuses to answer. As far as he is concerned, he does not owe his husband an explanation. If he can conceive, it will be on his terms. He may just decide to call off their marriage himself.

Although, he doesn’t think he can do it safely now that Stiles knows about his anatomy. His mother might make him honor their marriage anyway.

He hates that being so low in the family hierarchy means that he has no autonomy. He thought he would be all right with it, but having met Stiles, he knows that isn’t true anymore, and he will definitely be making an impassioned plea to his mother when she arrives.

“What are you thinking now?”

Derek turns to find Stiles openly watching him. “I was just wondering when my people would arrive,” he lies smoothly.

Stiles does not look like he believes him, but he also does not challenge him.

Shortly, as Stiles predicted, a courier, Isaac, arrives. “Your king requests your appearance in the throne room.”

Stiles makes eye contact with Derek before standing up. “Do you mind putting away the model?” he asks Isaac.

“Of course, my lord.”

Stiles leads Derek back to the throne room. The halls are still a mystery to Derek, and he realizes with a jolt that he hasn’t even been outside for almost two days now. He would have thought he would have felt the call of it under his skin. Curiosity and anger have kept it mostly at bay, and because he cannot afford the distraction of it, he buries it again.

King John nods at them as they stand in front of him. “Son, Prince Derek, I’ve spoken with Heather. She has agreed to keep the secrets in exchange for a place on court. For now, she has been assigned to the lower courts. If it takes, we’ll marry her to a baron.”

Stiles turns to Derek. “I am truly sorry for the situation that we now find ourselves in. If I hadn’t been so hasty or angry, we would not need to acquiesce to her demands.”

It is the first time that Derek actually believes his husband when he opens his mouth.

“For now,” King John continues, “I believe Advisor Deaton has more information regarding the whereabouts of the Argentian army. If you would be so kind?”

Deaton hurries onto the dais from the side, scrolls and papers gathered in his arms. He lays them out, taking great care to smooth the edges. “Here,” he taps a spot on the map, “is where the Argentian army last made camp, nearly three days ago. They have been marching relentlessly toward our capital ever since.”

“And do you know the location of the Lýkosian army?” King John asks.

Deaton taps a different spot, far closer than Derek had thought his mother’s troops would be. “They will reach us first unless they make camp again,” he says.

Derek stares at the map so that he doesn’t have to see if Stiles looks at him then. He doesn’t know if the army will rest. If they don’t, they might not be as great of help as Beaconia might hope, but if they do rest, it is likely that they will arrive after the Argentian army.

“Should we break the bond?” he asks, quietly, almost lost in the conferring of Advisor Deaton and King John.

Stiles jerks his hand up, kissing it. Derek shivers and not because the gesture is typically romantic. Right now it feels manipulative on Stiles’ part. They have all but admitted that they are unable to function as they should. Derek hasn’t forgiven the transgression of Stiles bringing a woman to their bed, and especially on their wedding night.

“Do you want to break the bond?”

“We maybe should, just so that if we need to fight, we can.”

Deaton nods. “It would be the smart thing to do. They haven’t practiced fighting bound as they are. If the Argentian army attacks, it could put them in unnecessary danger.” Derek doesn’t trust Deaton’s sudden change of heart, but he won’t question it if it means he will have his hand to himself again.

King John nods in agreement. “Break it.” He turns away when Deaton pulls out a dagger. Derek holds very still as the blade passes over his wrist. The rope falls away, and Derek tucks his arm close to his chest.

As short as they spent together, it feels foreign to have his hand free.

Stiles looks as lost as Derek feels, and he hopes that his face does not give him away as well.

Now, because they can follow if they wish, but he does not have to go where they do, Derek walks away.

He knows that he is giving up the strategy meeting for something petty, but at this very moment, Derek needs nothing more than time to himself.

No one stops him.

~ * ~

An hour later, Derek finds himself hopelessly lost.

At least he found a suit of armor on his travels and took its sword, so he is at least not unarmed.

He turns one way and then another. Nothing looks familiar and yet it all looks the same. It is his one wish that if the Argentian army were to invade Beaconia, they would be as confused and unused to these halls as he is and become just as lost. Especially Princess Kate.

He leans against the wall, studying the surrounding walls for any distinct markings. As he discovered the first six times he looked, there are none.

He sighs, thumping his head back. The brick beneath his skull depresses slightly, and then a scraping sound fills the hall.

Derek has time to straighten up and stare at the wall where he’d been moments before. It rotates, opening a space behind where he can see an interior garden. There are little globes hanging from a vaulted ceiling. If they were not there, Derek does not think he would be able to see it; it is higher than the rest of the castle. Higher even than the indoor pasture with the animals.

Inside the room, raised beds of different plants stretch back almost too far to make out properly. This room alone is as big as the rest of the rooms he has been in so far, and if he was told that it was larger than the entire rest of castle, he would not doubt it.

He walks into the room, a little worried when the wall swings shut again, locking him in. He’s alone as far as he can tell. He has the time to explore a little bit and get out of here when the time comes. If he can find his way out.

For now, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he steps away from the wall.

He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of loam, dirt, and plants growing. The wave of homesickness that hits hurts in a very physical way. He tucks it away, wondering if he ever won’t, and starts walking.

The first few beds are as expected, with general fare of edible plants. Farther on are what Derek recognizes as medicinal plants. He can make out the shape of a few trees even farther back.

Long has Beaconia been self-sufficient with no need to open trade lines. The only reason the betrothal was even put into place was because the only thing Beaconia lacks is military presence.

Lýkos has always been known for their military prowess. If it hadn’t been Derek, it would have been his sister Cora, but Adveria, a small nation farther south than the Southern Isles and Argentia, had already sent a marriage proposal by the time his mother received the missive from Beaconia.

There was one child left. Just Beaconia’s luck that it was Derek.

Just Derek’s luck, too.

He trails a hand over one of the beds, avoiding the stretching leaves as he passes.

He knows what his mother will tell him when he asks her to annul the marriage. She will say that he didn’t try hard enough, that he didn’t present Lýkos in a favorable way, that it was his misstep that led to Stiles nearly having an affair on their wedding night, and that he will need to forgive his new husband and go through the binding ceremony again.

He rubs at his wrist, feeling the chafe left there. Can he spend a week bound to Stiles? The easy answer is no. The better answer is he shouldn’t have to.

But Stiles has promised to make an effort to change. His mother would say that it was proof enough that the marriage could work. Stiles may still make damaging remarks to Derek but he can be certain he won’t bring another consort to their bed. Not after Heather.

For his country, for his family, Derek is willing to try the binding ceremony again. For himself, he does not know. Once his mother’s army has arrived and the Argentian army has been dealt with, Derek will allow Deaton to tie his sword hand to Stiles’ non-sword hand and they will spend seven days together.

After that he will either spend the rest of his life one step behind Stiles or nowhere to be found.

 Derek needs to return to the throne room. He sighs, shooting the indoor plants one last glance. Beaconia is a wonder to behold and he should felt honored to be here. Instead, here in the garden has been the first time he has felt at home in the stone kingdom.

He returns to the wall, searching for the brick that will open the secret passageway. He finds it quickly, pressing it. He waits only enough for the wall to swing open enough to admit him before he steps through and straight into Kate Argent.

They both go sprawling, Derek’s sword clanging across the stones.

Kate recovers first, pulling out a dagger and leaping against him to press it into his throat.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses.

Derek doesn’t answer. He doesn’t owe her an explanation. She doesn’t owe him one either, but he knows that Argentia is invading Beaconia. Lýkos isn’t. They’re sending help.

“Don’t move,” Kate warns him. He isn’t sure why; he wasn’t planning on moving.

She cocks her head, turning a soft gaze to him. “We could have been something special.” She traces his cheek, tapping just below his eye. Derek does his best not to flinch. “We were meant to be,” she says, leaning in to follow the path of her finger with her tongue. Derek can’t hold back his shudder at the wet slide of it. Kate laughs at his discomfort. “I wanted you, you know. I had my father send betrothal requests to your mother. And do you know what she replied?”

Derek can guess. Argentia hadn’t communicated with Lýkos for a dozen years, and then when they did, it was only to secure passage to the Northern Ports above Lýkos when Derek was twelve. Kate had attacked Lýkos less than three years previous. Kate tells him anyway. “She said you were already promised to another kingdom, to a prince no less!” Kate’s hand drops to poke at his groin. “How can you have lineage with the wrong equipment?”

He bats her hand away, shoving the knife away as well.

She only laughs at him. He hates that laugh. He needs the sword, but Kate is between him and the blade. He won’t reach it before she stabs him with her dagger.

“Imagine having your soulmate stolen by a child.”

Derek doesn’t have to imagine it because Stiles is his betrothed, his husband now even if their binding was dissolved. Kate seems even more dangerous than she had in Lýkos, and Derek wishes that his mother had seen the wisdom in seeking her death. A lot of trouble for both Lýkos and Beaconia could have been saved had Kate not been allowed to flee Lýkos freely.

“Do you think that brat will still want you if I sully you?”

Kate slams her hand against the brick that activates the secret passage, shoving Derek back into the hidden gardens. She follows him, stalking after him as he keeps scrambling back. He hopes to circle the trees and escape out the door before she can, get to the blade, and defend himself.

Kate whistles at the plants. “I knew they were holding onto something good,” she mutters, staring wide-eyed at the planters, the growing vines, and the trees far in the back. While she isn’t looking at him, Derek drops to his hands and knees and crawls under a planter.

Kate won’t miss him long, and he scuttles forward, heading for the wall. He makes it there easily and goes to stand up when Kate’s hand drops heavy on his shoulder.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Derek doesn’t answer. He hits the brick and jumps out into the hallway, Kate close behind him. Any moment now and he’ll feel her dagger sliding between his ribs.

He just needs to be faster than her.

He lunges, rolling forward and grabbing the sword. Kate screeches, falling onto him, pinning his hand to the floor.

She hisses in his ear, words that he can’t understand falling from her lips. Derek can understand most of the languages of the surrounding kingdoms, including Argentia’s. He doesn’t know this one.

Kate licks his ear, the hand not holding him down slides under his tunic, into his britches. She grasps his length and tugs harshly.

Derek forces back his whimper, bucking to get her off his back. Instead, her fingers slip, poking into him.

She pulls back, a startled, “What the hell,” on her lips.

Derek uses the advantage to stand up, jerking his tunic back into place and pressing the point of his blade under Kate’s chin.

“What are you?” Kate asks, fear and disgust in her tone.

Derek rolls his shoulders. “I’m Lýkosian.”

“Does that mean that your sisters, your parents, have that same defect?”

“It’s not a defect. It is just the way we are.” He doesn’t bother to correct her that only he and his older sister are different. Laura will be able to sire her own children, and he will be able to carry his.

Kate spits at his feet. “You’re nothing better than bed-warmer. You’ll never be true royalty. A consort.” Kate spits again. “I could have you bedded by my knights, see if a child will grow, to see if you truly are defective. How would you like that?”

“I would say that I am the one with a blade to your throat.” Derek does not wish to be raped every day of his life as he is sure that Kate wants now that she knows Lýkos’ secret.

He does not want to remain wedded to Stiles even yet, but he also does not wish to be taken by Kate. Perhaps he is only safe if he is married?

“Prince Mieczysław and I are married now. If you take me, you will be declaring war on Beaconia.”

“I am already at war with Beaconia. Where have you been?” Kate sneers at him. “Go ahead and kill me if you think you can. You get one chance.”

“One chance is all I need,” Stiles says coldly.

Derek doesn’t move even though Stiles’ sudden appearance has startled him. Kate doesn’t look surprised at all.

“Took you long enough,” she says, pushing away Derek’s blade, standing and dusting off the knees of her britches. “Do you know what your blushing bride is hiding under his clothes?”

“If you’re referring to the fact that my husband is Lýkosian,” Stiles says, pronouncing Derek’s kingdom correctly for the first time, “then you can take your insinuations and shove them up your—”

“Okay, point taken.” Kate laughs. “I hope you know that none of the other kingdoms will trust Beaconia in the future when I tell them of their prince’s consort.”

“Husband,” Stiles corrects. “And you won’t have that honor.”

Before Kate can respond, Stiles leaps forward, slashing a short blade across her throat. She gurgles, hand over the wound to no avail. She falls to the floor, gasping wetly as blood surges from her torn trachea. She expires mere minutes later.

Stiles uses the toe of his boot to gently kick her. When she doesn’t move, he steps over her, backing Derek against the wall as he runs his hands down his front, patting at him as if trying to ascertain any injuries.

“You are all right?” he asks.

Derek nods stiffly. “How did you know where I was?” he asks quietly before Stiles can pull away. He thought he was not followed and he has not seen any subjects since he took a wrong turn by the dining hall.

“These gardens are wired to alert us of any time the doors are opened. I figured the first time was you discovering them. Selfishly, I’d hoped that you would fall in love with them and wish to stay here. I thought at first that you had left again right away. And then the alarm sounded again and again.”

Stiles refuses to meet his eyes. Puzzled, Derek thinks over it, realizing that Stiles thinks he is still going to leave because their bonding was cut and they are no longer married. He thinks he has already lost his husband.

Perhaps he has. Certainly Derek has no desire to remain where barbed comments will follow him, where the threat of the Argentian army is still very real despite their princess lying dead in a pool of her own blood.

But, with Stiles promising to be better to him, Derek wonders if he should give his husband another chance.

“Do you want to return to Lýkos when your mother’s army arrives?”

Derek wraps fingers around the wrist that had been tied to Stiles’. He can still feel the rope burn on his skin. “Perhaps,” he says, carefully, “we should try the bonding ceremony again.”

He peeks up at Stiles through his lashes. The smile Stiles gives him is radiant. He offers his hand to Derek, helps him over Kate’s body. Several subjects, Isaac and Boyd among them, peer around the corner.

“Take care of her body,” Stiles instructs them. “She may be our enemy, but even she deserves a proper burial.”

With Stiles leading him, it doesn’t take long to return to the throne room. King John sits on his throne, guards around him.

“Was she alone?” he asks.

Stiles nods. “She came ahead of her army. I found her near the gardens.” He looks to Derek. “She was assaulting Derek so I killed her.”

King John stands. “Are you all right?” he asks Derek. “She didn’t hurt you?”

“She did not,” Derek confirms. He rubs at his wrist again before offering it to King John. “I wish to be bonded to Prince Mieczysław again.”

King John looks at him in surprise. “Are you certain?” he asks. “You are within your rights to say no.”

Derek pauses for a brief moment before he nods. He appreciates King John offering him a way out, but ultimately, it isn’t his or Stiles’ or even Derek’s choice. It’s his mother’s, his queen’s.

“Very well. Advisor Deaton, if you would?”

Deaton steps out from behind the center throne. He performs the ceremony all over again, looking as surprised as the king when Derek allows him to tie the same hand to Stiles’ hand again. They repeat their words, and then Stiles leads Derek to what is to be their joint chambers.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says softly, shyly. “I wish to perform my husbandly duties.”

“And if it is all right,” Derek responds, just as shyly and softly, “I would like to wait the week that we are bonded.”

Perhaps the greatest change in Stiles is that he agrees with a simple inclination of his head. “Lie with me?” he asks. “Just on top of the bedclothes?”

That Derek can do.

~ * ~

~ Seven Days Later ~

Five days into the Lýkosian army’s stay with Beaconia, shoring up their defenses against any retaliation from the Argentian army, Deaton removes the rope in front of the gathered crowd.

Derek’s mother and older sister, the commander of the Lýkosian army, watch proudly as Deaton pours liquid into a goblet and then Stiles and Derek both drink from it. Haltingly, Stiles repeats the words he had said at the beginning of the bonding ceremony in Lýkosian. Derek smiles.

They’ve spent much of this week speaking about their expectations from each other and what will happen when the bonds are cut and Derek’s family returns to Lýkos.

Stiles has agreed that their matrimonial duties will wait until at least another week while Derek has indeed fallen in love with the gardens, learning how to do simple electrical upkeep so that he can fix the light-bulbs that malfunction. He has even managed to trap his own daylight in a jar, which he gifts to his mother with his husband’s blessing.

Deaton asks for their hands, cutting the rope simply, the blade balanced between their hands. When it falls away, Derek is not surprised to find that his wrist is uninjured. Stiles has not pulled nor made Derek walk a few steps behind unless he was leading him, helping him learn the halls.

Stiles has been gentle and perfect this time around. Instead of being angered that Derek is unfamiliar with things, he takes the time to teach him.

Derek feels treasured, and in turn, is beginning to care deeply for his husband. Already they are exchanging gestures of affection. Certainly the extra week is because the Argent kingdom has sent word that the crown prince and his daughter will be arriving shortly to discuss the matter of Kate’s attack. The goodwill garnered with the return of Kate’s body will go a long way with Prince Christopher.

There are rumors that he is less tyrannical than his father or sister. Derek is looking forward to meeting him. Especially now that he feels as Stiles’ equal instead of his lesser.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs a few hours later when they have retired from the festivities of the resumed wedding, his finger wrapped to match Stiles’, their branded rings gifted easily and accepted with joy, “we could forgo the week.”

Stiles turns to him, a question on his lips. Derek kisses it away, disrobing easily with his freed hands.

Stiles blushes, nodding almost frantically. “Yes. Yes. Definitely. How shall we do this?”

And despite being the elder, Derek has no idea. He has never been touched like this. His mother forbade it in order to keep their secret.

Derek takes Stiles’ hand and leads him to the bed. “We shall figure it out together,” he tells him.

Stiles smiles.

~ End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this story is about twice as long as I had originally planned. I am sorry for the way it jumped at the end, but there was no way I would have been able to complete this if I had let it go on longer.
> 
> I hope this was an acceptable conclusion to the story and I thank everyone who read, subscribed, left kudos, bookmarked, and commented on this story.

**Author's Note:**

> The [Fandom Trumps Hate auction](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/1035.html) is going into its browsing week on February 18 with bidding to open on February 26. I am offering a piece in any of the fandoms I've written for (except for Vikings (TV)). Find me under Klam.
> 
> I still have AO3 invites, so if someone wants one, send me a message at either [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/) or [my Dreamwidth](https://scared-beings-in-the-dark.dreamwidth.org/).


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